But now we are at the sweet end of the meal, which naturally enough begins with pork, a sweet fragrant stew of the stuff, inside a sugar-crusted bun. It’s quite outrageous, and serves as a great support act to that final, perfect dessert: another bun, this time one as pale as a Jane Austen heroine, with a slight baby’s-bum cleft and a hint of rosiness so it resembles a white peach – a notion emphasised by a leafed twig. It contains a liquid centre of aromatic duck-egg custard: the silkiest custard, the most aromatic custard, simply the best sweet custard it will ever be your luck to try. The bun has a crisped base, which is a perfect textural counterpoint to the liquid centre. And now look: I’ve gone off on one. But it is a moment that simply stops all conversation and, with it, the meal.
A Wong manages the clever trick of being a relaxed space in which to eat serious food. There’s an open kitchen and a constant clatter, but at the heart of it are a bunch of dishes which punch above their weight at a good price. Granted we drank only water, but £70 for two was a steal for food of this quality. I’m late to review this restaurant, but can see why so many have already made such a fuss. I want to return to try the night-time dishes and the Peking duck tasting menu. And for the duck-egg custard bun of my sweaty palmed dreams.
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